


Caramel Latte With a Shot of Vanilla

by alec



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, French Jean Kirstein, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6894745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alec/pseuds/alec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he handed the woman her drink with a genuine smile, she smiled back and thanked him, putting a dollar in the tip jar. He’d been so angry all his life—about nothing in particular—but it was calming working here, and as the stress of his life had melted away Jean found that he actually liked smiling. And he liked having people smile back at him. Of course, the difficult part was when he wanted <em>one particular</em> person to smile back at him. All the time. That man was becoming a problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caramel Latte With a Shot of Vanilla

**Author's Note:**

> Car in the shop meant I'm stuck at home which meant it was time to write. Found this idea stashed away in my writing folder and thought it was adorable. The idea was Jeanmarco and I liked it for that pair so I figured I'd give writing an actually _decent_ Jeanmarco fic a try, even though I'm still exclusively a Hijack writer afaik. But this was a ton of fun; I miss these boys.

“Jean, just go ahead and _do_ it already. I’m going to go _insane_ if I have to put up with another week of this.” Jean glared daggers at the girl on the other end of the counter from him. She could hold the stare from his eyes for only a few seconds before the mugs that she was cleaning became suddenly quite interesting.

“Sasha, what am I supposed to say? ‘Hi, I think you’re really hot and you have a nice face and good lips and I’d like you to use them on me.” Looking up from the mug, Sasha smiled and nodded her head enthusiastically, and Jean rolled his eyes with a long groan. “It doesn’t just _work_ like that, Sasha. You can’t just _waltz right up to somebody_ and say shit like that.”

“Okay, but have you _tried_?”

“Sasha for the love of God, it doesn’t—” There was an older lady at the counter now, looking at the board above Jean’s head and squinting, trying to read out the different drinks that they served at the café. He waited until she looked at him to say “Hello ma’am, welcome to Café Maria, how may I help you today?” This wait was just long enough for Sasha to walk behind him and into the kitchen, whispering in his ear ‘have you _tried_?’

Jean turned around, grabbing a paper cup and began assembling the vanilla macchiato for the woman. It was late morning and the crowd had died down, patrons either sated at their tables or rushed off to work. He had the time to be able to make her drink immediately, and it felt nice to be able to do something with his hands. He’d tried retail, and he’d tried working at call centers, but he felt at home working in the coffee shop, where he was able to interact with other people and _do_ things, and being surrounded by the aroma of coffee beans when it was raining outside (as it always would in Trost, be it summer or winter) was a sense of idyllic peace. When he handed the woman her drink with a genuine smile, she smiled back and thanked him, putting a dollar in the tip jar. He’d been so angry all his life—about nothing in particular—but it was calming working here, and as the stress of his life had melted away Jean found that he actually liked smiling. And he liked having people smile back at him.

Of course, the difficult part was when he wanted _one particular_ person to smile back at him. All the time. That man was becoming a problem. Well, he’d actually been a problem for quite a while now. Ever since that morning where the nigh-hurricane winds had literally pushed him through the front door, soaking wet with a broken umbrella that shook water all over an outraged college student, Jean hadn’t been able to get the man out of his head. And that had been _months_ ago now. The sheepish grin, the short cut hair, the massive amount of adorable, child-like freckles that a man that tall and well built had absolutely no business sporting—Jean couldn’t handle he way his heart would pound in his chest so loudly that his ears would ring. Which, as it were, had become a part of daily life at the café, as the man had become a morning regular since then. Sasha was trying to convince him that it was because of Jean, and Jean was trying to convince her that if it was because of his sorry, lonely ass, the man would say more than just his order, smile, pay, smile, take his cup, and walk out of the door again. And then Sasha would groan and they’d have the same conversation _over_ and _over_ about how Jean was this and Jean wasn’t doing that and he knew that killing your coworker was illegal but there was probably amnesty if they were your best friend.

Jean busied himself with sorting the teas behind the counter now that he had a reprieve from customers. There wasn’t an enforced organizational system they had—it basically boiled down to “stick it wherever there’s room for it”—but Jean liked having them arranged by package color, spread out like a rainbow; he just thought they looked nice and appealing, even when his coworkers snickered at him about how Freud must be grinning in his grave. And naturally, with Connie being the insufferable ass that he is, reorganizing the teas was a daily occurrence as the late noon shift was apparently “really, really boring.”

A cough from behind Jean’s back interrupted him, and he set down the box of mango green teas. “Hello, welc—ome to Maria’s Café this morning, sir,” Jean said, hoping that his brain frying out hadn’t sounded as noticeable to the man as it had to Jean’s ears. He let out an internal sigh of relief when the man didn’t look the slightest bit curious. Stupidly enough, Jean might have also been disappointed as well. “The usual, sir? Caramel latte with a shot of vanilla?” Jean already had a cup in his hand when the man just smiled and blushed, and Jean had to turn his back immediately and start on the drink because he couldn’t think straight, what with that man’s cheeks turning red.

“I guess I must come here too much if I don’t even have to tell you what I want.”

“Oh, uh, no. No, this is, well, we have a lot of—hold on a sec—” Jean didn’t actually _need_ to focus on the machine, he just needed to get his brain to start working again if he was going to try and talk. “We have a lot of consistent customers. You’re not alone. And your special isn’t anywhere near as complicated or outrageous as some of the others’, but I didn’t just tell you that, okay?” Jean did his best to give as neutral a smile as he could as he handed the man his drink, and ignored the way his heart jumped when their fingers brushed. The man raised the cup and the warning that it was incredibly hot was on the tip of Jean’s tongue before the man just smelled it and smiled at Jean, who was just fucking gone by this point.

“Marco,” the man said, then blinked. “It’s, my name is Marco. I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you my name or what but, uh, you don’t have to call me ‘sir’ anymore.”

Jean was ready to die and was somewhat certain that he already had because his periphery was fuzzy and glowing like heaven-lit clouds. “Jean,” he said, and resisted the urge to punch himself in the face.

The man repeated Jean’s name, Jean impressed that he got the nuanced pronunciation right on the first try. Then Marco looked at Jean and: “Votre famille est français? Parlez-vous Français?”

_Oh._

Jean’s mind scrambled to rush forward and to try, while he was at it, to not stumble over his words. “Oui, mais je n’ai pas vécu avec ma famille pendant quelques années.” The man’s eyebrows hiked on his face in surprise (and was that a bit of admiration?) and the two stared at each other in silence before there was the identifiable sound of a foot slipping on water, at least four glass items breaking, and a wobbling ‘I’m alright’ from the back room. “I, uh, I should go and—”

“Yeah, no, definitely. That didn’t sound like she’d be very alright to me.”

Jean smiled and gave him—Marco—a wave goodbye, disappearing hurriedly around the corner with a “see you tomorrow!” And then two things registered simultaneously in his mind: the first, that he’d just told the man he’d been crushing on for months now something so casual it bordering on friendly intimacy, and the second, that it had been considerably more than four glass items that broke.

* * *

2:01am

_’Go the fuck to sleep Jean.’_

3:44am

_’Why the hell haven’t you fallen asleep yet. Don’t just keep lying there awake—lie there asleep.’_

4:34am

_’People die from not getting enough sleep.’_

5:45am

“Morning Jean! Boy, you look exhausted. Didn’t get much sleep last night?”

“Fuck off, Sasha.”

* * *

Marco came that day again. And then the day after, and the day after that. _’As he does every day, idiot,‘_ Jean berated himself. And over the course of the week, Jean learned a number of things about his undying crush. Marco is a professor at the community college a few blocks away from the café; he teaches French, because _of course he does_ ; he tends to skip breakfast because he doesn’t like public transportation after _some_ incident and he has to leave home early to walk to school; that he doesn’t get paid a whole lot and most of it goes to coffee, rent, and food (Jean had felt horrible taking his money that day). And he also learned that their hands were the same size and what Marco looked like wearing Jean’s clothes.

It was absolutely _pouring_ on Thursday. Trost was known for bad storms, but this one was the worst of the season by far. The streets were covered with lakes of water and Jean had hydroplaned twice getting to work; parking his car had been one of the most stressful events in recent memory. Every patron who walked through the front door was covered in rainwater, no matter how large their umbrella was. Then almost two hours into Jean’s shift, Marco came through the door.

Jean knew that there existed an upper limit to just how soaking wet somebody could be—all of their clothes drenched and every spot of skin wet—and yet Marco had somehow surpassed that. His short hair was plastered to his forehead and he was holding his arms and shivering violently, trying to form a smile for Jean that was both ‘Hello, good morning!’ and ‘Am I allowed to even be in here?’ at the same time.

Jean stood there, shocked and unblinking as he took in the scene, before he dashed around the counter and pushed Marco through the café and towards the restrooms. “Wait here,” he told a shivering Marco before disappearing into the back room.

He kept a change of clothes with him at the shop because working at a café, even with an apron, meant that you were most likely going to wind up covered in something compromising at some point. Grabbing his change of clothes off of his apron hook, Jean looked around quickly before grabbing a clean dish towel from the rack. He wrapped his clothes around it so none of the customers would think that the café employees washed their bodies with rags before they cleaned the cups, and then walked back to where Marco was standing, surrounded by a veritable lake.

“Here, change into these. They’re all I’ve got, but I hope they fit you.” And then, leaning in a little closer and whispering: “There’s the closest I could get for a towel in there. Just keep it hidden in your wet clothes when you come out.”

“But what if your clothes won’t fit—” Marco protested as Jean pushed him towards the men’s restroom.

As it were, they fit. They fit Marco’s body in a completely unfair and horrible way. The man had muscle definition unlike Jean and Jean’s clothing showed it off, holding taut across his chest and biceps and the jeans were just tight enough that Marco had used his belt to make sure they stayed together, which meant _of course_ that his calves and butt were hugged tightly. Jean couldn’t—he honestly couldn’t keep himself from staring at Marco as he walked towards him, the other man looking sheepish.

“I’m so incredibly sorry, Jean.” Marco looked down at the drenched clothes he’d walked in wearing and he looked like a puppy who’d just been yelled at. “Thank you so much for the clothes, and the drying off, and the—oh my God, are you serious?” Marco looked like he was about to break down as Jean handed him his caramel latte.

“It’s not a big deal”— _don’t stare at his arms, don’t stare at his pecs, don’t look at anything that isn’t his face_ —“You clearly needed it. Don’t you have an umbrella?”

“I did, but it broke a while back and I.. came.. in here..” Marco hit himself in the face with his sopping clothes in embarrassment and Jean couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “I’ve got to be on a wall in the back of customers never allowed here again.”

“You’re fine, Marco. It’s fine, really. Look, you still have six more blocks until you’re at the college, so I’m going to lend you my umbrella and a pair of gloves for the day.” There it was, there was the protesting already on Marco’s lips and the puppy eyes. “No, you’re _going_ to take them. You can get a replacement umbrella for yourself later today, but right now my umbrella is sitting in the back unused, and you’re going to just get your second set of clothes wet if you try to brave it yourself again.”

“Jean, this is—this is so much to ask—”

“You haven’t asked anything from me; I’ve just forced you to take stuff. Like my umbrella.” Jean looked at Marco confused as the man rummaged through the wet pile of clothes until he saw Marco taking his wallet out of what used to be a pair of wearable pants. “Oh, no. No. You’re not paying me for this.”

“Then at least let me pay you for the drink.”

“It’s 10am and you’ve already had a wonderfully shitty day. The drink is on me. No. Do not hand me that five dollar bill. I’m not taking it from you. Keep trying to give it to me; I’m going to just let you drop it on the floor.” Marco put the money back in his wallet, looking personally rejected, bordering on hurt. Jean lightened his tone; he could understand that Marco just felt helpless and wanted to at least be able to do _something_ about the situation. Jean told him as much. “But look, I think you need a break from the day, so just, let me do this for you? Okay?” Marco still looked unconvinced. “Hey man, you deserve good things to happen to you as well. Just think of this as, you know, karma coming back to you.” Marco smiled a little, and if that didn’t just light up the whole room.

“Thank you, Jean. So, so much.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, and then whispered. “And actually, really don’t mention the towel thing. That could probably get me in a lot of trouble.”

When Marco left a few minutes later, struggling for a moment with opening the umbrella, Sasha leaned against the counter beside Jean.

“So, when you two get married, who’s taking the other’s last name?”

Jean shot her a glare and stomped off. She had the knack of ruining otherwise perfect moments for Jean, and that was a completely out of line and, frankly, unfair question to ask him.

He didn’t even know Marco’s last name.

* * *

When Marco came in the following day, he was holding a paper shopping bag (because of course this angel would choose paper over plastic) with the handle of Jean’s umbrella peeking out over the top. A day later and Marco still appeared embarrassed as he set the bag on the counter and slid it towards Jean, looking as though he were remembering vividly what had happened to bring him here. Which, he probably was.

“Thank you again. I washed _everything_ you gave me and it’s all folded in here, and I went to the store last night and got myself a replacement umbrella.” Jean just smiled and took the bag from the counter, setting it down on the floor beside him to take into the back room when he had a moment.

“It’s no problem. Really. The rain settled down before I got off work. I’m just glad you stopped in here, because your day would probably have sucked a lot more if you’d had to go to class like that.” Jean kept it to himself that he was also glad that he’d been able to witness the wet t-shirt contest followed by his stupidly attractive crush wearing his clothing. “Let me get your order ready.”

“How can I repay you for all of this? I mean, I don’t think you’ll let me _literally_ repay you, but—”

“You know, he’s single and _more_ than ready to mingle,” Sasha said, smile in her voice as she walked between Jean and Marco to get to the baked goods display.

Jean’s heart spiked and then stopped completely. You could tell the precise moment that she had said the words because the ‘c’ in Marco suddenly turned into a scribble all the way off the bottom of the cup that looked as thought it had been written by a seismograph. Jean couldn’t move, and just stood there staring at the cup in front of him with wide eyes and a vacant smile. The silence that filled the air was so strong that Jean thought he was going to suffocate. And then Marco spoke.

“Uh, well, if you, I mean if you want, I’m free tonight and I’d like, well, there’s a new movie playing downtown and, you, uh, if you’d like to go?”

Jean couldn’t even pretend to ignore how wildly his hands were shaking when he handed Marco the latte that probably would taste like crap because he couldn’t function anymore.

“Y-yeah, sure. I’d—yes, I mean, I’d like to go.”

There was a wave of relief that swept across Marco’s face, and no matter how much Sasha would insist that it was just because Jean had accepted Marco’s date, there was no denying that a part of it was simply because the immediate awkward tension was gone. Jean looked to the cup that both of them were holding, then up to Marco’s eyes, and tried to give him as best a grin as he could muster.

“Call me,” he said, and then handed Marco his change quickly before picking up the paper bag. “And now, I’ve got to uh, go, put this away. In the back. The clothes, I mean. But call me? I’ll see you tonight, maybe?” And then Jean was gone.

Jean made it as far as the employee lunch table before he clutched at his chest, sure that this was what it felt like to have a heart attack. His pulse was racing faster than it ever had back when he played soccer in high school.

“Smooth job out there, Casanova,” Sasha said from the doorway.

Jean wasn’t sure if it was appropriate for him to strangle her or to hug her tightly. So he just settled with: “I can’t believe you just fucking did that.” He didn’t need to turn around to know that a shit-eating grin was plastered across her face.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’ve got a customer waiting out there in front, so you should probably get back to your job and help them.”

Jean took a deep breath, trying to get his body back in control. He felt light-headed as he stood up, but after a few wobbly steps, he felt he’d regained enough composure to be able to _almost_ do his job.

Then he walked through the door and saw that the only person in line was Marco. He held up the latte that Jean had given him, the ragged ‘c’ that exploded off of the cup and the ‘o’ that his shaking hand had made look more like a drawing of a star.

“You, uh, you forgot to write down your number.”

Sasha had been biting her lip in the corner but couldn’t hold back the thunderous laughter any longer.


End file.
